


Things Yearned For

by Ammeh



Series: FE3H Wankfic [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Female My Unit | Byleth, Intrusive Thoughts, Light Angst, Masturbation, Pining, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pregnant Sex, WhatIReallyMasturbateToIsHerSmile.png
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22005469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammeh/pseuds/Ammeh
Summary: Dimitri dreams of things he doesn't want to let himself believe he'll ever have.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Series: FE3H Wankfic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862374
Comments: 23
Kudos: 388





	Things Yearned For

**Author's Note:**

> Back with another pre-timeskip wanking fic...I do have other fic ideas for this fandom, I swear. 
> 
> Ironically, I went through BL with a vague headcanon that Dimitri's trauma-induced health issues probably included a lowered or non-existent libido, at least until he starts to be more open to the idea of living for himself, but fandom has converted me to the gospel of Awkward Thirsty Dimitri. 
> 
> I know there's already a bunch of fics out there where academy Dimitri has guilty Byleth fantasies, so hopefully this doesn't give anyone too much déjà vu. At least I know there's an audience, right?
> 
> The concept art version of what Byleth is wearing under her armor features heavily at the beginning of this, so you may want to look up her concept art if you haven't seen it.

Dimitri just barely manages to avoid slamming the door of his room. That was a disaster. Running a tense hand through his hair, he hangs up his cape and collapses heavily onto the bed with a sigh.

He truly does wish to be with her forever, is the thing. But...she wasn't saying anything, and he panicked. She looked so _hurt,_ after his clumsy joke _._ Does that mean he actually had a chance?

Had. If he _had_ a chance, he presumably lost it with his terrible choice of words. Something about her just...ties up his tongue into knots.

...If he's being honest with himself, it might be her chest.

No, he doesn't stumble the same way around Manuela, so that can't be quite it. Her chest is...very nice, though. Without his intent, his mind floats off to an unseasonably warm day on the training grounds that Wyvern Moon.

~

_Professor Byleth is practicing her swordplay when he enters, her coat hung up by the door. Not wanting to disturb her, he takes up a spot a few yards away, in the hopes she might glance over and offer some of her keen insights on his own training._

_He quickly falls into a rhythm, high, low, thrust, up--_

_A motion in the corner of his eye draws his attention._

_He looks over to find the professor unbuckling the cape about her waist, tossing it off to the side before she attacks the dummy with resumed fervor. He can see the muscles of her legs working as she lunges, has to tear his eyes away from the way her shorts cling to her rear. Now that he's looking, he notices the way sweat is gathering in the small of her back, how the curve of her waist is unobscured by her jacket--_

_He tears his eyes away. High. Low. Thrust. Up. Soon he has to remove his own jacket due to the heat, but he keeps his gaze carefully forward._

_The clock chimes another quarter hour._

_**Clank**._

_Byleth has stripped off her collar and breastplate, leaving her in a tight black cloth top with a cut-out on the upper torso. The swell of her breasts stretches it tight across her body, and—Goddess, he can see her cleavage._

_She hooks a finger in her shirt's cut-out and pulls it away from her skin, flapping the cloth as she wipes sweat from her reddened face with her other hand._

_His hand tightens around his lance as he tries desperately to keep up his routine. He ignores the fact that he's stepped several feet to the side so he's at an angle to watch her. Training with distractions is valuable. If his eyes are going to betray him he may as well leverage it._

_She puffs out a long breath and plunges the cloth she's been using to wipe sweat from her brow down between her breasts. Her bosom envelops her fingers, and he can't help but imagine sliding his own fingers into the crease framed by that little window, her breasts pressing against his hand on all sides—_

_The wooden handle of the training lance snaps._

_Byleth looks over. “Break another one?” When they first met he would have thought her flat tone mocking, or a sign of polite exasperation, but now he can hear the amusement._

“ _I—yes.” He swallows, fighting to keep his eyes up as she steps closer. “I hope you will accept my apologies for being so hard on the equipment, Professor. It is not my intent to—”_

_She waves him off. “Don't worry about it.” She rolls her shoulders and stretches, then cocks her chin over at the rack of training swords. “Want to spar?”_

_Goddess help him._

~

At some point during the recollection, his cock has gone from mildly interested to hard and straining against his trousers. With a hiss of breath, he undoes the buttons of his fly, biting his lip as his cock twitches at the brushes of contact and a pulse of wetness oozes out to dampen his smallclothes.

Well, now he has to change them anyway, so...

He kicks off his boots and shoves down his trousers and smalls, leans back on his bed and wraps a hand around his cock. He always feels a little guilty for doing this, since for an hour or so after he does it his headache eases and _they_ quiet down—but sometimes he needs a brief respite to remain focused, no matter how little he deserves it.

He focuses back on that little peek of cleavage. He'd imagined sliding his fingers down into it at the time, but what if—

He has a somewhat ridiculous thought, of the professor bending over to correct his stance, and his cock bursting free of his trousers (as things are wont to break around him), the head slipping right into that little slot between her breasts.

No, not like that.

He'd want her to be...invested. He gives himself leave to take his fantasy to an extreme, imagines her sitting in his chambers in Fhirdiad, wearing his colors, smiling coyly.

The Byleth in his mind shrugs out of the knight's tunic she's wearing, lets it fall to the floor and tugs off the cloth she's wearing over her breasts.

What would they look like? He's seen women feeding infants, and nude paintings imagining the early days of creation, but the professor's look...a great deal larger.

In his head, Byleth kneels before him, holding her breasts together with an anticipatory gaze. He squeezes his cock, imagines thrusting between her breasts, her soft bosom squished around his length. He doesn't think her chest would quite envelop him, the crown of his cock would pop out the top... He rolls his other palm over the head and imagines her leaning down, tongue darting out to lick him.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes, careful to keep his voice quiet. It'd be bad enough if Sylvain heard him next door, but her room is directly below that, and he's noticed she tends to leave the shutters open. He's not sure he could face her if she heard him masturbating—much less if she realized it was to her image.

He turns back to his delusion, fantasy-Byleth squeezing her breasts around his length as she suckles the head of his cock. He imagines her giving it one last lick, looking up and smiling at him as he paints her chest with his seed—

There's a knock on the imaginary door, and Gustave's voice floats into the room. “Your Majesty? Your uncle is waiting in the throne room with some potential brides.”

It's like a bucket of cold water. Why does his mind always—of course, it's because he's going down a selfish path, imagining himself with a woman of his own infatuation rather than focusing on finding one who can offer the most to his people.

Professor Byleth is a commoner. There's no way he, as the crown prince of a withering and desperate country, could ever truly be with her. Not without betraying his people, his nation. Or his wife.

But...the professor _does_ have a major crest.

Maybe—maybe it could work? With the bloodlines of the Ten Elites weakening, and more children each generation unable to bear the relics needed to protect their country, maybe it's right to prioritize blood over wealth and family connections. Maybe he could convince the advisors as much. And outside of Viscount Gideon's new babe, the only unwed major-crested daughter of a Faerghus noble house is disgraced, perhaps a choice even more controversial than a nameless former mercenary.

He envisions his chambers again, the profe— _Byleth_ lounging nude on the bed, a ring sparkling on her finger. Blue, to match her eyes. Although...blue is also his family color, so would everyone assume the choice was mere self-aggrandizing? That's a dilemma. He allows himself the luxury of pretending it's one he'll have to solve someday.

He pictures her beckoning him over (as if he wouldn't follow her anywhere) and imagines walking to the bed, shucking his clothing on the way. He's already gone deep enough into fantasy that he imagines her reaching up to embrace him as he crawls between her spread legs, her smile radiant as he leans down to kiss her.

In his mind's eye he traces his hands up the curve of her waist, cups her breasts in his hands and kneads them. He spits in his hand and rolls his fingers up the length of his cock as he tries to imagine what they would feel like. In his delusion Byleth reaches up to kiss him again and again, smiling against his mouth only to shiver into a longing moan as he bites at her lips.

He imagines pushing her legs further apart, slotting his body between them so that his cock bumped up against her wet slit. He pictures her wrapping her legs around his hips and pulling him in, stroking her hands down his back as his cock delved into her body.

Pleasure shivers down his back as he thrusts into his fist and imagines he's plunging into her wet hole. He daydreams of how her legs would feel wrapped around his waist, what her breathy moans would sound like.

And—right, women have a...spot down there. He imagines bringing his hand down to the apex of her thighs, just above where his cock is churning into her, rubbing and stroking until she's clawing at his back and keening.

Getting close, he squeezes harder, imagines what it would feel like to pump his seed into her body. And she'd be his wife, so...

He slows his pace, not ready to leave this reverie just yet. Allows himself to envision what she would look like swollen with his child.

He pictures her in the sitting room of his— _their_ chambers, sipping tea as she sorts through letters, dressing gown stretched over her gravid belly. Imagines dropping a kiss on the exposed curve of her neck and reaching down to caress the swell of her stomach. In his fantasy she twists around with one of her dazzling smiles, pulls him closer and kisses him on the mouth.

His fantasy self joins her on the sofa, tugs her dressing gown open between kisses and slides it off her shoulders. He'd stoke his hands over every curve of her torso—old and new—until she was flushed and quivering, hand shoved greedily between her thighs.

While he'd love to pull her into his lap and have her like that, the position would be challenging with her belly so distended. Perhaps—

He imagines bending her over the sofa, crowding up against her from behind. Maybe a pillow under her, to support her stomach, he's read that—

He loses his train of thought in a vision of her rear, pressed pertly up against his cock as she waits expectantly for him to take her. With such temptation, he wouldn't tarry—he imagines tenderly caressing her belly as he presses inside her, kissing the back of her neck.

In such a position, though, it might not stay tender for long. He yanks on his cock to the phantom sound of her gasps filling the sitting room as he pounds into her, the wood of the sofa creaking under her desperate grip. (He's...admittedly not entirely sure whether other people grab the furniture hard enough to creak during the throes of pleasure, but in his own experience, it happens often. He suspects that at the very least, grasping it hard enough to _break_ is an affliction unique to his bloodline.)

His daydreamed Byleth turns her head back to smile at him, murmurs “I love you” before trailing off into a satisfied moan.

 _Oh_. Oh, oh, oh—

He sprays into his hand, body shuddering with aftershocks as that imagined sound echoes in his ears. _I love you I love you I love you I love—_

 _You're disgusting_.

He really is, warping the professor in his mind like this. Claiming her as _his_ in his fantasies with no knowledge of her thoughts on the matter. And he's still not even sure what it is about her that makes him feel this way.

It's just...somehow her presence makes him feel _secure,_ in a way he hasn't felt since he was small. Like he can relax and trust her to take care of things, like everything will be okay as long as she's around.

 _That's a dangerous feeling,_ something— _someone_ hisses at the back of his mind. _Look where it got you before_.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, sorry.”

He's not sure whether he's apologizing to them, or to her.

–-

The next morning, he keeps his head down as he enters the classroom, not wanting her to see the guilt on his face.

Professor Byleth looks up as he sits at his desk and smiles at him, like she doesn't know what he's done, like she can't see how wretched he is inside.

As always, her smile is...mesmerizing.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's assume they had class in the morning before the whole...Jeralt thing.
> 
> (For all the zeroes of people waiting for the post-TS Ferdinand/Dorothea/Manuela, I haven't dropped it!)


End file.
